


Ivy, Oars, and Ex Pats

by winglesswarrior



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bartender Louis Tomlinson, M/M, crew team, stroke seat liam, townie louis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 12:09:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21427999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winglesswarrior/pseuds/winglesswarrior
Summary: The last thing Louis ever needed was a stupidly fit stroke seat for the Princeton crew team to walk into his bar, but apparently the universe had another plan.
Relationships: Liam Payne/Louis Tomlinson
Kudos: 4





	Ivy, Oars, and Ex Pats

**Author's Note:**

> we are calling this: fic war! Three starts of WIPs and seeing what everyone likes best. Then maybe I'll actually finish something.

The Princeton men's lightweight crew team won their annual Ivy League regatta and Louis was already nostalgic for a time two hours ago when he knew nothing about crew. Currently the stroke seat for the team (if he’d learned anything the sport was created by sexually frustrated old men because it’s riddled with positions and names that sound like innuendos) was sitting on a chair that someone had put on one of the tables in the pub and was drinking copious amounts of whatever out of the cup that they’d won. Every time he finished whatever they’d poured into it the whole team in their matching warm up jackets cheered like it was the greatest thing ever. Between the team and their following, everyone had been talking Louis’ ear off every single time they ordered a drink about how great the team was, the sport was, and how truly wonderful their sophomore stroke seat was. 

The tiny girl who was currently talking his ear off and both simultaneously trying to sleep with him and the stroke seat cheered with them as super-fit-stroke-seat finished off his champion’s cup of beer and held it aloft. She was apparently his coxswain (again, laden with sexual innuendo), which was both exactly what Louis though it meant and exactly not. Apparently she sat in the end of the boat, squished down in a tiny place while he rowed right in front of her and she yelled at him to go faster all the while getting a first hand view of his legs and arms. Louis didn’t have the heart to tell her that given the way stroker there was full of glassy eyed looks and hadn’t once spared a glance at any of the girls in the bar he had to guess that stroker wasn’t interested in the ladies or the tiny girl in front of him. “‘Nother one of those?” he asked her instead, pointing to her now empty glass of something pink and fruity. Maybe she’d get drunk enough to make a move on stroke-lead and Louis could watch. It might make up for the certain mess he’d be cleaning up until dawn. 

“No. I’m done.” She wavered a little then sort of fell/hopped off the stool and wandered back into her team who all dwarfed her by almost two feet. There went entertainment for the night. 

Louis went back to making drinks as the orders came in, half from people banging up to his bar and half from the two waitresses trying to deal with the crowd that wasn’t the eager beavers of rowing or crewing or whatever the appropriate verb that went with that ridiculous sport was. When he wasn’t filling drinks he watched stroke-man of the delicious thighs (hearsay from the cox really, no one could tell with the way his jeans didn’t go up over his arse and didn’t show off said thighs) chug down another champion cup full of beer. The stupid rich kids in this stupid college town were stupid, Louis decided for the fourth time that night and probably the billionth time since he’d moved to Princeton, too poor to keep living in New York City chasing his dream and happened to find work near the college. He probably should have gone with downtown Trenton, but Princeton reminded him more of home and rich college kids tipped better than drunk Jersey Shore rejects because they didn't realize that the money came from somewhere other than materializing when they swiped their parents’ Amexes and Visas. 

A clamor and a crash distracted everyone in the bar from whatever they were doing and when Louis looked up the hard stroker was no longer on his chair on the table and it was toppled to one side. There was a moment of silence before the guy found his feet and then everyone was cheering again, patting his back as he made his way over to the bar leaning on it heavily, champion’s cup still in his hand. “You know it’s rather disgusting, drinking out of that,” Louis pointed out, waving towards the cup. 

Fit-stroke blinked at Louis, head tilted to the side like some sort of confused puppy with eyebrows for weeks and Louis waited for him to say something, but no actual words came out of his mouth. 

“Let’s get you some water champ. I think you’re going to need it.” Louis shifted to get a spare glass, but didn’t get very far before someone had his arm pulling him back and holy fucking hell this guy had huge hands. Like wrapped almost all the way around Louis’ bicep huge. 

“Oh my god you’re English!” 

It wasn’t the first time Louis had heard that sentence slurred at him but it has to be the first time it had been said in something that might have been a posh northern accent if it weren’t for the slurring bits. It was shocking enough that it gave Louis pause, eyes going back to the hand on his arm and then the eager and glassy-eyed drunk face staring at him. “Um. Yes?” 

Super-jock must have realized that he was grabbing a stranger in a bar and if Louis had been a girl that might have been frowned upon because he dropped his hand instantly, pulling it back as if he’d been burned and Louis firmly did not notice the way his arm felt cold when it was released. “Yes. Definitely. Me too.” 

“Gathered from the accent,” Louis said, not at all sure why he was being brash. There wasn’t anyone from England in New Jersey. Not anyone he’d found yet. The best he got accents from were calls from Harry and video chatting with his mum and sisters. The familiar lilt of words, though slurred, were like home, but he still ventured away from those too large, too eager eyes that didn’t go with the way this guy’s shoulders barely fit in the warm up jacket he was wearing. 

“Where are you from? M’Liam. Yorkshire right? You sound like the guys from their team,” stroke-seat, Liam apparently, rambled.

“Doncaster,” Louis confirmed, getting that glass of water and setting it in front of Liam. “Think you can chug something that doesn’t come in a giant cup?” he asked. 

Liam grabbed the glass, putting away half of it which was so weird to Louis. Whenever he was drunk and someone tried to hand him water he moaned and pushed them and the water away. Liam here just took it like the champ he apparently was. “Doncaster. Amazing. I haven’t met...Not since Nialler. Though he’s Irish so my guess is that he doesn’t count, but when you’re desperate for someone that sounds like home, you’ll take whatever you can get yeah?” 

Louis thought he was a rambler. Apparently drunk Liam was as rambling as it got. He refilled Liam’s glass when he finished it, then put another on the bar to go with it. “Yeah no, I feel that mate. 

“Help’s that you’re pretty too.” 

Now it was Louis’ turn to blink at the guy in front of him, not sure where that came from. “Um...am I?” It was a nice thing to hear from a guy surrounded by super fit blokes that probably did things like go to the gym and lift weights or run or something, whereas Louis’ idea of a good workout was a night behind the bar, but he hated when the students hit on him. He had nothing to offer the stupid rich kids other than a change of pace and he’d gone down that road before it had ended miserably. And then he’d done it again and it had ended worse. There was some saying about third times, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t the ‘it’s a charm’ one. 

“Yeah like...really.” Liam blushed, actually blushed, then looked down at his water glass. “Sorry.” 

“For giving me a compliment? That sort of takes the fun out of it doesn’t it?” Louis waited until Liam looked up again before flashing his best flirty smile. It wasn’t the real one, just the one that looked wonderful in pictures and damnit if it didn’t work. Liam grinned back, his eyes squinting up in the corners and Louis fought the urge to bang his forehead on the bar. He knew better, but if this guy was going to smile like that he was going to become a walking tale for everyone who knew they shouldn’t do something and did it anyway. 

“Does...maybe I’m not sorry.” Liam didn’t sound sure, but Louis went with it leaning on his side of the bar so he was closer to Liam. 

“Don’t be. Never be sorry. Just keep being gorgeous and no one will care if you’re sorry or not.” Which was the route most of Liam’s peers had gone down. They were good looking and rich and wanted for little. They didn’t have to act right or apologize or treat someone well when they could just throw money at every little problem and make things go away. 

“Not sure I could ever do that,” Liam slurred with a laugh and for half a moment seemed like he was leaning in more until someone else grabbed his arm, patting his back. Louis forced a smile at the new teammate hanging off Liam and put space between them again, leaning away from the bar. The new person ordered another round and before Louis could finish with the order, Liam had been pulled into the thick of their celebration again. Louis went back to working the bar, ignoring Liam and his friends until a different shout erupted from their group. Louis looked up to see Liam hunched over his cup, sick into it and rolled his eyes. 

“Out!” He shouted at them from the bar and thankfully they knew they’d done wrong and hauled Liam out the door, leaving behind a few people to settle up tabs. Louis fought the urge to charge them extra for the mess, but wound up sticking to just adding in gratuity considering their party was over six and they’d had him and two servers helping them. Once they were on their merry way he shook his head, claiming he needed his fifteen before he stalked about back grabbing his jacket on the way. It was quiet in the alley way behind the bar and which meant he could smoke in peace and call the New York number that Harry had given him a few months before and let Harry remind him how bad of an idea it was to for ex-Pat townies to want to shag rich college students who threw up in championship cups.


End file.
